To Turn Back the Page
by Tobichanlissesul
Summary: His own face stared back at him, lined with grief, his eyes reflecting the years of abuse he had endured. He looked so…broken…Steve didn't deserve someone who was broken…he deserved to have his Bucky back…the Bucky who remembered him, the Bucky who could love him so much better than he could now.


How strange…to know who's face stared out at him from the photograph, but not to recognize it. He looked young, very young. His dark brown hair was cut short, and styled messily to one side; his body had only just begun to gain the muscle tone that came with adulthood. He looked so happy, standing there beside Steve, grinning, laughing even. His expression bore no trace of the nightmares that haunted him now, no suggestion of the grief that pulled at his every muscle.

Bucky stared at the photo, held lightly between his metallic fingers. The photo was so old, he really shouldn't have it…he might ruin it. But it was the best reference he had.

Steve remembered him. He remembered everything of course…He had spent hours…days…months, telling him every detail he knew about him. Steve had sat with him from morning until evening retelling stories from their shared past. Bucky loved those stories, but to him, they were still just stories. He couldn't remember them.

Bucky drew in a steadying breath as he placed the fragile, old photograph on the sink and looked up to the mirror. His own face stared back at him, lined with grief, his eyes reflecting the years of abuse he had endured. He looked so…broken…Steve didn't deserve someone who was broken…he deserved to have _his_ Bucky back…the Bucky who remembered him, the Bucky who could love him so much better than he could now.

He had never known his hands to shake before, but as his fingers wrapped around the handle of the pair of scissors, his organic hand began trembling. His metal arm, of course, remained still. Bucky switched the scissors to his other hand, metal clinking softly against metal as he raised them again, a fistful of his over-long hair clenched in his trembling hand. The blades of the scissors slid apart with an almost menacing hiss, and Bucky felt his heart rate increasing. This should not scare him, but it did.

Just as the blades began to slide closed around the first strands of dark hair, the bathroom door opened. Bucky startled, the scissors dropping from his hand and clattering to the floor. Steve stood in the doorway, blinking, a look of confusion written on his open, honest face.

"Bucky?" He asked quietly, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. "Is everything alright?" Bucky swallowed hard, unconsciously backing away from Steve.

"I'm…fine…" He choked, the words coming out just above a whisper. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky caught sight of his reflection once more. His skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, and a sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead. His lie was not going to go over well with Steve.

"Bucky," Steve said again, this time, a note of gentle reprimand in his voice. "What's going on?" Bucky's haunted gaze dropped away from Steve as the taller man approached him. His eyes flickering over to the scissors that were now lying, abandoned, on the floor. Steve followed his gaze, his lips pressing into the thin line. The man reached out, picking up the old photograph from where Bucky had placed it so carefully on the sink, his expression growing wistful. Steve licked his lips slowly before placing it photo back down again, his eyes locking with Bucky's.

"What are you doing Buck?" He asked quietly, reaching out and gently resting a hand on the back of Bucky's neck. Warmth spread through Bucky's neck and chest. The contact offered him a comfort that he could never begin to find the words to thank him for.

"I…" He rasped hoarsely, unable to hold Steve's gaze. "I just…wanted to be _your _Bucky…" The quiet statement hit Steve like a battering ram, threatening to drive the air out of his lungs.

"Hey…" He whispered softly, cupping Bucky's down-turned face in his palms, a painfully sad smile pulling at his lips. "Hey, listen to me…you're still my Bucky…" He murmured, leaning in to press his lips ever so gently to Bucky's forehead. "You've never stopped being my Bucky…" A shudder passed through the other man's body and he pulled back, his eyes livid with pain.

"But I don't _remember _you." He cried, voice cracking. How could he not see that? How could it _not _matter to him?

"It's okay," Steve said earnestly, "It's okay…You will…when you're ready…you just need more time to heal…it's okay Bucky…" He assured him, his hands brushing lightly across his cheekbones, moving soothingly through his hair. "It's alright…"

Bucky allowed his words to wash over him, allowed them to calm his racing heart. When Steve's lips pressed softly against his own, Bucky allowed his eyes to close, allowed himself to feel safe, and loved. He wanted to be Steve's old Bucky, he wanted to be everything Steve deserved. But Steve didn't love Bucky for someone he had been; someone he wasn't anymore. He loved Bucky _now._ He loved him even though he couldn't remember him, he loved him with his scars, and he loved him with his baggage. Steve knew that loving Bucky couldn't make him remember, but it didn't matter, because even without his memories, not loving Bucky simply wasn't an option.


End file.
